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ryn Nov 2014
Too many** eyes watching
Too many ears listening
Too many ideals capsizing
Too many thoughts sinking...
And dreams drowning.

Too many drops fallen
Too many smiles forsaken
Too many times beaten
Too many hearts left shaken...
And promises broken.

Too many questions asked
Too many answers hidden
Too many faces masked
Too many hands bitten...
And people forgotten.

Too many words said
Too many pacts fade
Too many boundaries laid
Too many rules made...
And games played.

Too many secrets entombed
Too many feelings consumed
Too many ill thoughts bloomed
Too many enemies groomed...
And hate campaigns resumed.

Too many...
A plethora too many
Too many...
We choose not to see
Too many...
Taken far too lightly
Too many...
There's just *too many,
too many...
ryn Oct 2014
Perhaps I'm encased in a box
made out of two-way glass.
A biased one-way mirror...
Mutual vision doesn't meet nor pass.
When you look at me,
you only see,
yourself for all that you care...
Me? Just a faint suggestion that I'm even there.
   Maybe that's why...
      you ask about my life,
      about my strife.
      When I'm about to unload my
      head,
      I end up having to hear about yours
      instead.

Perhaps at times I travel around
in a bubble of frosted glass.
Only a blurred version of me...
Clumsily ploughing through the mass.
Incoherent, misunderstood and unclear.
Unintelligible muffles of hopes and fear.
   Maybe that's why...
      My words are just perceived as
      playful rhymes.
      Never keeping up with the times.
      Words regurgitated but no one
      realises what's coming undone...

Perhaps what I need
is an armour of bulletproof glass.
One of unique quality...
One ahead of its class.
You can do and say what you want.
A shell that would bear most of the brunt.
     I'll be impervious.
          I'll be protected.
               I can be indifferent.
                    I can be jaded.

   Maybe that's all I need...
           A shocking stunt.
                 A fresh perspective.
                      A new plan.
                           Revised objectives.

   Maybe a different name to start all
   over...
      To tie the binds and thoughts that
      scatter...
      Hoping of holding everything
      together...

Come morning, all will be
      forgotten...
Maybe I'd still be beaten.

   So for a chance that's,
     fat as hell
           or
     thin just a sliver...
Truth is of the three, I have neither...
So...

    *what I've said doesn't really matter.
DW Jan 2015
He watches the world through tear streaked eyes,
At the people just living their lives,
There was no one who cared or was even aware,
That their society was founded on lies,
It was the cruelty of man to man's fellow man,
That caused his young heart to break,
It filled him with sorrow to learn that tomorrow,
There was no difference or change he could make.

First there's the teen with no hopes or dreams,
Who holds the gun to his head,
If only we had heard that four letter word,
"Help" and he might not be dead,
But parents ignore a child's implore,
Move along there is nothing to see,
Then comes the day when he's taken away,
Pushed over the edge by the bully.

The starving young pup who lies all beaten up,
By the teenagers too cool for school,
They've come to learn that next it's their turn,
Drunk fathers are awfully cruel,
Or perhaps the poor homeless just hoping for kindness,
And ends up completely ignored,
We can grumble and shout from our comfy warm house,
That most likely, they're all just big frauds.

Then there comes war the thing all Governments adore,
They can line up their pockets with gold,
The war against terror? Or just the oil endeavour?
It doesn't matter soldiers do as they're told,
"An air strike for peace" is the press release,
As civilians are rained on by bombs,
Can they really believe that what's been achieved,
Is greater than the innocent lives that are gone?

He watches the world through tear streaked eyes,
At the people just living their lives,
There was no one who cared or was even aware,
That their society was founded on lies.
Lynnia Jul 2018
We were dueling with sparks
Now we’re juggling fire
Flame still starves in the dark
Never beaten or tired
Doesn’t dim with age
It can’t be blown out
Still alive with rage
Feeding on your doubt
It doesn’t think
And it can’t feel
Driven to the brink
Craving its next meal
Anger scorches your soul
Many have learned
If you play with fire,
you’re bound to get burned.
Anger scorches you from the inside out and letting the blaze speak for you has its consequences.
Gala Aug 2018
Behind the wheel
I remember how you loved
Our long drives
Though winding streets
Going down those hills

I miss the days
Playing in the white sand
Watching the pink hues
As we lay next to each other
Forgetting our blues

We used to talk
For hours
Non-stop
About our dreams
And our hopes

Wishing to connect
Going deeper
We would forget
That we were beaten
At our own game
patty m Jan 2018
Beautiful poet, your lines pristine as new fallen snow,
drift now in hazy sky.  Posture not but sleep and dream
What was isn't, what is will change in future days. Scurry not rat-like forsaken; sip sweet nectar and breathe in the silken breeze. 
 Often told, thy enemy is self.  Plagued deep in sentiment, one can drown in the swill of depression.  Fear not, for the sun will shine again, Spring thaw releasing the land from Winter's hoary hand.  Dream on to budding flowers and the greenery that surrounds you along with bird sounds and the song of the babbling brook.  Leap high as golden carp chasing red umbrellas, deep down a smile is waiting to kiss your lips.  Spread your arms to all you see, embrace the glorious.  Be a child again chasing  sunbeams as horsetail clouds race across the sky.  Enjoy the magic of metamorphosis, that fuzzy caterpillar friend you talked to on a leaf, is someone else entirely, ethereal as it wings by.   We too change, learning from exposure the lessons of life.  How to overcome, and battle on, and when to rest, heaven blest.  We're not Gods, though made in the image of one, yet how much we accomplish.  One could lay down and die, thrash and cry, and what would that accomplish?  When wearied and beaten down I often wondered what I would miss if I were to give up.   Night is always the harbinger of fear, that looks less horrible in morning light.
What might you miss?  
I can't answer for you my friend, only for me.  I would have missed years and hours and minutes with my precious loved ones, three now gone, but never forgotten.  I'd have missed so much time with my beautiful daughter and I would never have learned that I could raise myself upon life's ladder.  Most of all I would  have missed the joy of my precious granddaughter Abby, now 23 months old, who is the hope of all my tomorrows.  None of this would have come to pass if I had given in when I felt forsaken.  
Each day is a beautiful gift, not to be taken for granted. 
Open the strings, experience the surprise.
Tara Sep 2018
Watching the colour drain out of someone’s face,
like ice cubes melting shades out of your coffee.
Branches falling off your favourite tree,
foreshadowing its winter death,
but you pretend you don’t know.

Watching someone you love fall over the same step each time,
like they see a ghost every time they turn left,
so they keep turning left,
And they scream “Why is it always going wrong?”

Watching your brother beat himself black and blue,
like the kids used to do at school,
And now all he recognizes is his beaten back and bleeding knuckles,
but he is so much more than the pain he holds in his hands.

I’ve been watching you break bridges with your voice since I was a child.
I’ve been watching you use fists to communicate since I was a child.
I’ve been watching you self-medicate since I was a child.
I learned from the best,
don’t you see?

Watching you love a woman made me angry,
maybe I knew all along she’d only leave a knife in your back,
after you stabbed her in the front.
At least she saw you coming right?

Watching you break down made me fall apart,
maybe I was hoping I’d become strong,
but watching you suffer felt like being suffocated.
Yet you were the only one suffocating.

Watching you not exist in my life the way you used to took a part of me away.
It’ll never be the same again.
Do you remember all the days we spent doing nothing,
but doing nothing together?
I felt so alive.

I’m watching myself search for you in everyone I meet,
just to get some pieces of you back.
I’m watching myself run away from the person you are,
but I’ve been stuck in quicksand since you left.
I’m watching myself drown as I realize how quickly life changes,
and how quickly it ends.
Avery Nightshade Dec 2017
I don’t change,
I grow up
I don’t give up,
I’m beaten down,

There’s two sides to every story
There’s two sides to every face
People think i’m happy cause I smile,
You know I’m barely holding it up

They don’t know me
You don’t know me
You don’t know when I’ll lose it
They won’t know why I lost it

They’ll say she was such a happy girl
Maybe I grew up
You’ll say we read their poems, they were depressed.
Maybe I was beaten down.

I’ll stand strong,
I’ll stand tall,
They won’t beat me down anymore,
I’m not the little girl they knew
Pagan Paul May 14
.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
.
caitlyn g Nov 2018
there will come a day
when you have beaten that dog
so many times
that it will refuse to come back to you

and when you ask
"why?"
as if you are unaware of what you have done
and i tell you the reason

you will lash out

you will never understand
why

as it has been
and always will be
#2
Logan Robertson May 2017
Voices In His Head

backwoods of his mind
birds and bees stutter blossoms
seeds of apathy grow

a lone dwarf rabbit
burrows under a bonsai
trunk's a beaten path

waterfalls to nowhere
life's knotted of shallow pools
voice ... go to deep end

Logan Robertson

5/20/17
Stephanie Nov 2015
Quest along the beaten path -
Rite of Passage;
Cheerfully pay toll -
Your Fair Share of sacrifice.
In return,
Earn
Falsehoods, hollow&unholy;
Silhouettes of acceptance
Virtual applause
Manufactured smiles,
Which guide like tracks,
Revealing shortcuts to sunlight
Passing predators' dens
...
Lustful leeches
Latch on with thirst,
Flesh swells
Veins burst-
A familiar love
...
Still travelling
In figure 8s -
Hypnotic lemniscates,
An infinite conflict-
Self-reliant cannibal
Indulges in
Structured insanity.
zebra Jan 14
a future promise
a ******* like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans

a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete

she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices

half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****

on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time

her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame

her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had  fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie

lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
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